


(Death to My Body) Bury Me In Rock n' Roll

by thescrewtapedemos



Series: Do You Still Believe in One Another (Hey Brother) [2]
Category: Rooster Teeth/Achievement Hunter RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe - Rock Band, M/M, Swearing, starring michael as the worlds grumpiest bassist
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-30
Updated: 2014-06-02
Packaged: 2018-01-17 04:46:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 5,586
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1374370
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thescrewtapedemos/pseuds/thescrewtapedemos
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Michael Jones is fucking <i>cursed</i>.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. I Hate This Town (It's So Washed Up)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> work title from the song peace by kids in glass houses  
> chapter title from that one song about hating your hometown that every alternative band is required by law to have, this version by a day to remember

When it comes right down to it, Michael Jones just isn’t very _good_ at staying in a band. 

Sometimes it’s his temper but surprisingly often it isn’t. He’s pretty good at reining that in after years of public school and a shitty electrician job. He gets in fights like, once a week. Maybe twice. And he doesn’t even start them most of the time. 

The band before his current gig had broken up after the frontman was caught smuggling three kilos of black tar heroin across the Mexican border, which was impressive because the band was based in Jersey. The one before that had actually just disappeared. He would think they were avoiding him but the missing persons reports filed with the police were an argument against that. The one before that he had gotten kicked out of for picking a fight with the drummer, which he had to admit was on him. 

The guy was a prick, in his defense, and the band sucked. 

“I’m cursed.” He tells the phone balanced on his face glumly. Ray’s tinny laughter echoes from the vicinity of his nose. 

“Didn’t think you were into that superstitious bullshit.” 

Michael groans and drums his bare feet on the wall above his head. The walls of his shitty apartment are thinner than tissue but his neighbor is elderly and deaf and doesn’t care. 

“I’m starting to think the superstitious bullshit believes in _me_.” he huffs. Ray laughs again and Michael misses him with a sudden sharp ache. He rolls over onto his stomach, expertly catching the phone as it falls off his face, and sighs gustily. 

“How’s Austin?” he asks, trying to keep a trace of bitterness out of his voice. Ray sighs, hearing it anyway. 

“I had to come here, Michael.” he says quietly, and Michael feels guilty. He knows why Ray had to leave. 

“Yeah, I know. But seriously, how’s Texas? Is everything really _bigger_?” The sly innuendo in his tone is a little bit forced but Ray either doesn’t catch it or mercifully ignores it. Either way, he giggles. Michael can hear something guitar-heavy and angry in the background and it’s painfully familiar, Ray’s happy laughter and his angry music. 

“You won’t believe it, man. I’ve got a new band!” 

Any bitterness is washed away in a surge of happiness. 

“No way dude!” Michael sits bolt upright and barely avoids falling off his shitty couch. “That’s so great! Who’re your bandmates? Is it any good?” 

Ray is laughing over him and there’s the sound of a door slamming faintly through the phone speakers. The angry guitar music cuts out abruptly. 

“Jesus, Michael, you’re almost as excited as I am.” He says, feigning calmness. Michael isn’t fooled, he knows Ray too well, knows the Puerto Rican is about to bubble over with eagerness. 

“Well then fucking _tell me_ about it!” he exclaims, bouncing around. Ray takes a deep breath on the other end and then starts talking with rapid-fire enthusiasm. 

“You remember Jack, right? He’s the one that got me a place to stay? He’s a member, they’re this really mixed bag group, actually, just a frontman and two guitarists. One of the dudes, Geoff, he’s like thirty and he’s got _so_ many tattoos and when I first met him I seriously thought he was gonna eat me! They’ve got this British dude on primary guitar too, his name’s Gavin, he’s pretty friendly I guess? They’re all really good and really focused, too.” 

“British, huh? In Texas? Weird.” Michael laughs and pretends he’s not jealous. He hears Ray shrug, all rustling clothing and the _ting_ of an earring bumping against the phone. 

“I kinda got the impression that Geoff had like, adopted Gavin or something. It was cute in a really fucked up way.” Ray pauses and static fills up the space between them. “Fuck, I have to go dude. I got a shitty janitor job for a place downtown, pays the rent until my music career takes off.” 

“Yeah, dude, I’ll call you soon.” Michael says, laughs a little, and holds the phone to his ear until the dial tone sounds.

-(o)-

The band Michael is in, the Going Commandos, is _utter_ shit.

Their sole guitarist, Dave, barely knows more than the opening to Wonderwall and the vocalist – John – is so obsessed with his own reflection that Michael has had to physically remove all reflective surfaces from the studio to keep practice on track. The drummer is the only one other than himself that can tell his ass from his elbows but he’s no Ray and Michael can’t help but hold it against him a little bit. 

He attends band practice religiously anyway. 

The vocalist is running through some exercises and the drummer is tapping out a nice rhythm for Michael to freestyle a little too. Dave the guitarist hasn’t bothered to show up for practice again; In Michael’s opinion that doesn’t really hurt their sound. It’s pretty great, as far as a Going Commandos band practice is concerned. No one’s broken down crying yet, even. 

Michael is going to start screaming any second now and never stop. 

“One more time through?” the drummer says when Michael brings it to a close and sets down his bass to adjust the borrow amp. He’s about to reply when he realizes he hasn’t heard John singing in a while. He turns around and apparently he hadn’t managed to clear out _all_ the reflective surfaces because John is fixing his hair in the reflection of a beer stein with all the focus of a laser-guided missile. 

The noise Michael makes causes everyone in the room to jump. It’s high-pitched, and reminds him a little bit of a Chihuahua’s yipping. He stops immediately and utter, absolute silence reigns for what could be several minutes. Michael doesn’t think anyone is even breathing. 

“I’m done.” He says into the silence after a moment. 

No one moves to stop him as he stomps to the door. It’s only halfway down the first flight of stairs that he remembers that he left his precious bass on the floor of the studio. 

Michael sits down on the landing and contemplates his life for several long moments. 

He contemplates his shitty job. He contemplates his shitty, _shitty_ band. He contemplates his shitty apartment and his shitty prospects and his best friend, a whole shitty country away. He doesn’t really like what he sees. He wonders if this is what rock bottom feels like and decides it probably isn’t. He doesn’t want to know if it isn’t. 

Someone clatters down the stairs behind him and he doesn’t look up until the someone thumps down on the step beside him and exhales loudly. 

“Pretty dramatic.” The drummer says, expression neutral. He’s offering Michael’s bass with one hand. 

Michael grabs it and pretends he isn’t cradling it like a baby. As far as he’s concerned the bass is the closest he wants to be to having a child. He even named it. 

_Mogar_. 

“I was expecting you to leave sooner.” The drummer observes after another few moments of protracted, awkward silence. Michael’s shocked into replying. 

“Yeah?” he asks. The drummer laughs and leans back against the stair behind him, fishing a cigarette out of his pocket. 

“Yeah, dude. I mean, we suck! It was so obvious you were only in it until something better came along.” 

“We didn’t suck that bad.” Michael tries to say weakly, but is defeated by the drummer’s skeptical eyebrow. “You didn’t suck, at least.” Michael amends. 

“Thanks, dude.” The drummer shrugs and blows a plume of smoke towards the non-functional smoke-detector on the smoke-stained ceiling. “It means a lot. Sorry about John, I know he’s a shithead.” 

“Why are _you_ sticking around?” Michael asks, curious. The drummer grins up at the ceiling. 

“Couldn’t really tell ya. You should get going, look for that better thing.” 

Michael realizes as he’s leaving the building, Mogar in hand, that he never actually bothered to learn the drummer’s name.


	2. Some Days, They Taste Like Lemonade

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> chapter title from the song some days by the maine. google dat shit.

He still hasn’t found his better thing a week later, but he has found that there apparently isn’t a single band in the greater Jersey area in need of a bassist. He takes out the frustration on Mogar and Halo, by turns. His gamer score is about the only thing thanking him for it. He’s not a hundred percent sure but he may be pathetic.

“You’re pathetic, dude.”

“Fuck you, Ray.” Michael grumbles. He’s slouched on his shitty couch with the phone balanced to his ear and he doesn’t even have the energy to be properly drunk. He’s achieved that evil fugue state where everything is blurry and annoying and a hangover is leaning over his shoulder. The Corona hanging from one limp hand is warm now and he can’t even bring himself to take a sip.

“I’m just saying.” He hears Ray tapping at a drumming pad distractedly. It manages to sound better than most people with years of practice. If Michael were the type to get jealous he would hate Ray a little.

He’s totally the type to get jealous.

He wouldn’t say he hates Ray, not in those words exactly. He just… dislikes the kid sometimes. In a friendly way.

“I dislike you.” He tells Ray conversationally. Ray doesn’t even bother to respond, just taps away a little louder. Michael would say it sounds a little smug.

“Not having a band sucks dick.” He mumbles after three or four minutes of drumming and harmonizing humming along. Ray sighs and Michael hears him put his drumsticks down.

“You know I wanted to stay.” He says, and he sounds tired and just a little frustrated. Michael hates himself a little for making him sound like that. Ray doesn’t deserve his dumbass issues. He’s got enough on his plate.

“I didn’t even mean it like that.” He assures Ray, and ignores the disbelieving snort. “I’d just like to play in a band that doesn’t sound like, y’know, total ass. For once.”

“That’s the dream.” Ray hums an agreement. He’s doing that obnoxious Ray-thing where he agrees with everything Michael says until Michael talks himself in knots. Michael hates him a _lot_.

“I hate you a lot.” He tells Ray, and Ray doesn’t even offer words of agreement, just a mellow little hum.

Michael is dying to noogie him until he squeaks.

“How’s your band?” he asks, for something nice to talk about. Ray is awful at texting and whenever Michael asks about anything to do with the band he gets a complicated emoticon and just, no. There’s only so much bullshit Michael is willing to take in a given day and that’s crossing the line.

Ray sits up fast, Michael can hear the fabric rustling. Apparently there’s something _exciting_ going on.

“We’re good.” He says nonchalantly, as if Michael can’t practically hear him panting with excitement.

“Yeah, what the fuck ever.” He scoffs. “What’s got you so hyped?”

“Nothing too big.” Ray hedges and Michael realizes the little shit is _enjoying_ himself. Michael is going to punch him _so_ hard when he next see him.

“Ray.” he snarls into the phone. “Don’t front with me, asshole.”

“It’s nothing!” Ray squeaks and Michael would have to be out of his skull on cocaine to not hear the lie in his voice. As it stands he’s barely tipsy and absolutely willing to spend all night dogging Ray for the truth.

“ _Ray_.”

“We might have a deal with Roosterteeth.” Ray lets out in one breath. It takes a moment to process and then Michael is screaming incoherently into the phone. Ray is screaming back and Michael is on his feet and jumping around because holy shit. Holy _shit_.

The tenant of the apartment below bangs on their ceiling and Michael Jones _does not care_.

“Holy shit dude!” he yells to Ray. “How long have you been holding out on me, you little shit!”

“I know, right?” Ray yells back. “I’m not even supposed to tell you but I couldn’t not, fuck!”

Michael collapses back on his shitty couch, out of breath and feeling much drunker and significantly happier than before.

“Why can’t you talk about it yet? Deal not solid?” he asks breathlessly, swigging his warm, gross Corona. Ray snorts from the other end.

“Nah, Geoff’s tight with one of the upper management. We just can’t sign until we have, you know, a solid name and lineup.”

“Still stuck on the name thing, huh?” Michael lays his head back and grins at the ceiling. “I thought you had a solid lineup, though, you’ve got percussion and guitars covered. Geoff’s a decent singer, you said.”

“We would if either Jack or Gavin wanted to be bassists.” Ray snorted. “Gavin literally can’t, the dude’s got some kind of mental blockage. Jack can but I really get the impression he’d rather cut off his hand. Besides, neither of them are as good as you.” 

Michael is exactly enough of an asshole to preen a little.

“Sure as hell aren’t. Me’n Mogar, we’re unbeatable.” he says cockily. “Wish I could be there with you guys.” He says after a beat.

“I wish you could too.” Ray says quietly. They hang up not long after that and Michael spends a little while googling the label Roosterteeth like a total fucking stalker.

-(o)-

"I'm giving up on being a musician." Ray grumbles when Michael picks up the phone a week later. "I'm gonna be a janitor forever and it's gonna fucking _rock_."

"Hello to you too, asshole." Michael replies, grinning despite himself. "What happened?" 

"We can't fucking pin down a bassist!" Ray snaps, and Michael hears a thump that could be Ray sitting down or could also be him slamming his head against the nearest flat surface. 

"Still?" Michael bites his lip and feels a little bit guilty for how cheerful the news makes him. He doesn't even have any _stake_ in the process. "I thought you had some decent prospects." 

Ray snorts. 

"Geoff vetoed half of them for bullshit reasons. Like, not having enough tattoos last time. The other half couldn't hack dealing with Geoff _and_ Gavin, or they just plain sucked." 

Michael giggles a little, in a manly way. He can't help thinking, bitterly and in the back of his head, that _he_ has tattoos. And he knows he's good enough. 

He ignores the thought. 

"Gavin's that bad, huh?" He asks instead. He's heard a little bit about the Brit and honestly almost believes Ray made most of it up. No one could fall ass over elbows offstage that many times and still be able to play a guitar, for one. 

"I would never say that." Ray says which isn't, Michael notices, a denial. "He's pretty out there though. Sometimes his enthusiasm just gets to people." 

There's a long, static-filled pause. 

"Wish I could be there." Michael mutters, not paying much attention to his words. It's only a full minute later, when he realizes that Ray still hasn't replied, that he notices the quality of the silence had changed. 

"...Ray?" He asks. Ray makes an affirmative nose at the other end but doesn't say anything else. 

"You hate your job, right?" Ray asks slowly, eventually. 

"With a burning like herpes." Michael replies promptly, then turns suspicious. "Why?" 

"Still haven't found a band?" Ray continues, not answering the question. Michael is extremely suspicious. 

"No, and fuck you for reminding me." He pulls the phone away from his ear to glare at it. "And I repeat, why?" 

"Michael, have you considered moving to Austin?" 

Michael feels the bottom drop off his stomach. 

“I would need to think about it.” Michael says weakly after a beat of him trying to stifle hyperventilation. 

Ray groans and he’s frustrated, really obviously so, but Michael can’t help it. It’s a big decision and he’s barely been to New York, much less all the way to Texas. No job, no _real_ job. No way to support himself. It's a dizzyingly terrifying prospect. 

“I need you here, dude. If you get down here and talk to Geoff I know you can get in, you’re good enough for it!” Ray urges. "C'mon, man, this is one of those once in a lifetime things!" 

“I need to think.” Michael repeats numbly. "I can't. I just... I need to think about it.”

Ray sighs heavily but agrees. Michael hangs up with a cursory goodbye and stares at the wall for what could be almost half an hour. He drags himself into bed without any answers, and falls asleep staring at his ceiling.

His sleep is agitated and awful and he wakes up hungover and pissed off. The day is grey and damp and heavy and just adds to his headache as he drags himself from one stupid house call to another. Fucking Jersey. Fucking beer. Fucking copper wiring.

He drags himself onto his godawful couch, stares at the wall and turns Ray’s words over in his head. Move to Austin. Just like that. As if it were simple. It really wasn’t that simple.

Wasn’t it?

Michael spends the evening picking at Mogar’s strings and improvising an awful ditty about how much he hates Corona. He considers texting it to Ray but then realizes Ray would probably bug him into making a decision and so he goes to bed instead. Mogar was just reminding him about his lack of a band, anyway. 

He spends two days sizing up his job and his apartment and his life and coming up with even less than he had three weeks ago in that smoke-stained stairwell after he quit the Going Commandos. It’s actually really depressing, and Michael refuses to think about it on the third day. Instead he goes out and canvasses for bands in need of bassists. After the fourth person apologizing sincerely, he comes home even more depressed than before.

He hates his life, goddamn.

He calls Ray on the fifth day and opens with, “If I decide to head down there, and I’m still not sure I want to, I better have a place to stay with like, an actual bed. I’m going to have to sell a lot of shit for a plane ticket.”

Ray screams for about four solid minutes and then hangs up on him and Michael really doesn’t understand why he’s friends with the asshole, not at all. He gets a text in heavily garbled English several hours later assuring him that he can stay with Ray - provided he splits rent - and will almost certainly, probably, maybe, possibly have a bed of some kind. It’s probably what seals the deal for him, if he’s being honest with himself, but Michael rarely is and he spends an extra two days debating it loudly to Ray and secretly packing.


	3. Over Sleeping Like a Dog On the Floor

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> chapter title from the song king for a day by some band ft. the lead singer of some other band

Michael’s first impression of Austin is that it is _really_ hot compared to Jersey.

Michael’s second impression of Jersey is an armful of excited Ray hurling itself at him. He laughs and pounds on Ray’s back, attempting the manliest version of a hug he can without being a douche. He’s not sure he succeeds on either front but Ray’s _here_ with his stupid glasses and his stupid drumsticks in his back pocket and his stupid happy smile.

Michael totally doesn’t tear up and Ray is a lying bitch if he says he did.

-(o)-

Ray’s apartment is small and shitty and in a bad part of Austin. Michael feels right at home with the hobos and cracked, weedy cement. He gives his custom Jersey evil-eye to a particularly sketchy junkie lounging on the steps; the junkie spits at Michael’s feet and he relaxes. He thinks he could fit in here even though the place is about ten degrees hotter than he’s used to. 

It turns out Ray made good on the bed, more or less. It's a futon in a room hastily cleared out and previously used for storage, but Michael is not picky. It's no worse than his previous place anyway, and may in fact be better. There’s no pervasive smell of mildew and when Michael cautiously punches the wall it doesn’t crumble like ancient Greek pottery so that’s a plus. 

Ray stares disappointedly at him until he mumbles an apology for that. 

He gets one day of unpacking and hyperventilating in corners in a masculine way before Ray takes matters into his own hands. 

"I invited the guys over to help unpack and drink a lot." Ray says casually the day after Michael finally finishes unpacking all his clothes. Michael noogies him on principal, but a little more gently than that kind of betrayal truly warrants. It's disgustingly good to have his best friend back even if he pulls shit like inviting people Michael desperately needs to impress over without giving Michael time to properly panic about it. 

Ray shrugs when Michael points that out to him and reminds him that Michael had gotten into a band once after literally breaking the guitarist's arm. Michael doesn't think that's a fair comparison; it had technically been the guy Michael had been helping him kick out of the bar their band was playing at who had actually done the breaking. 

Either way he ducks out to the corner convenience mart with the excuse of buying soda. He ends up zoning out while staring at the soda choices. The cashier actually taps him on the shoulder, worried, because he had spent five minutes with the freezer staring at a bottle of diet cherry Pepsi without moving or, according to the unnerved cashier, breathing. Michael plays it off like he’s trying to escape the heat – which, midsummer, is awe-inspiring – and leaves without anything. 

Michael is _fine_. Michael is so fine. Michael is the actual definition of totally okay. Ray is really lucky Michael owes him his livelihood, the place he’s staying, and also probably several hundred dollars because he doesn’t warn Michael that the guys have shown up before Michael gets in the door. 

“Ray, I swear to _Christ_ this place is hotter than Satan’s own asshole!” Michael shouts into the apartment and then he looks up from toeing off his shoes and his apartment is significantly more crowded than when he last left it. 

Someone’s going to cough awkwardly in about five more seconds, Michael thinks dizzily. 

It’s probably going to be him. 

Ray speaks up before he has the chance to make even more of an ass of himself than he already has and Michael remembers why he kept the little fucker around. 

“This is Michael Jones, everyone.” He says, grinning like an asshole. 

“Hi.” Michael says faintly, then proceeds to prove yet again that even with help he can still find a way to make an ass of himself. “I’m Michael.” 

He winces, and hopes his pale skin isn’t betraying him like seemingly everything else is today. 

“Geoff,” Ray says, and gestures to the shorter of the two men, the one with the fantastic mustache and tattoos that make Michael’s mouth a little dry. He swallows the ink envy down and grins shakily, offering a hand. Geoff shakes it quietly and fixes him with a sleepy, intense stare.

Michael breaks first and remembers how Ray had said he had gotten the impression that Geoff had been about to eat him the first time they met. _Jesus_.

“Jack.” The second man introduces himself, offering a hand roughly the size of Michael’s whole head. His beard is legendary and Michael respects that in a man.

“And I’m Gavin!” the youngest of the trio says happily, jumping forward and grabbing Michael’s hand out of the air, shaking it a little too hard and bouncing in place. His voice is accented British and Michael has time to make the appropriate mental connections before he gets a good look at Gavin’s face and then his head goes a little funny.

Gavin’s staring him right in the eyes and he’s not blinking and Michael isn’t either and something funny is happening to his sense of hearing. His eyes are _very_ green.

A pause just the awkward side of too long later Gavin yanks his hand away and hops backwards like he’s been burned. He doesn’t say anything else, just stares at Michael blankly. Michael can’t meet his gaze for longer than a few seconds without getting a weird feeling in his stomach and so he forces a grin to Geoff instead. It’d be just his luck to blow chunks all over the lead singer and frontman of his potential new band. 

“Michael,” he says, “I play bass. I heard you were looking for someone.”

-(o)-

Michael only has to play for them once before Geoff is nodding slowly. 

“Eh. For now.” Is what he says, but he’s got a tiny grin tucked under his mustache and Ray nudges him triumphantly. 

Michael grins, grips Mogar and pretends happiness isn’t ballooning under his ribs because that was gay as hell. His life is pretty damn okay, he figures. Semi-permanent roof over his head, he’s picked up shifts at the same place Ray is staying, and most importantly, he has a band again. 

He has a _band_ again. 

They’re good, too. Jack and Gavin are skilled and so comfortable together that Jack seems to be able to psychically predict when Gavin’s going to take a header off the edge of the stage and compensate accordingly. Ray’s a fucking genius, as always, and Michael’s been playing with him for so long he thinks he may be able to synchronize with him in his sleep. And Geoff is almost painful to watch on stage.

He’s not surprised when he learns that Geoff wrote most of their lyrics, with some assistance from Gavin. The man seems to have a talent for opening a metaphorical vein when he sings, all messy sincerity and visceral emotions.

Michael doesn’t let himself think about it for too long, he doesn’t want to pry into Geoff’s personal life. 

The only issue he really has is Gavin. 

Gavin’s _pretty_ , a little bit, but looking at him makes Michael’s stomach turn unpleasantly. He’s got a massive fucking nose and Michael doesn’t think it suits his face at all, especially with how wide his eyes pop whenever he’s startled. Which is all the time. He doesn’t talk much, either, just lurks around and stares a lot. Michael covertly asks Ray if Gavin is maybe a little mentally challenged and after laughing himself sick Ray tells him Gavin’s just a bit odd.

“Dude’s fucking weird,” were his exact wards, and: “He’s a blast, though, it just takes a little getting used to.”

Michael doesn’t know how long that’s going to take. He keeps getting this weird feeling like he was recently kicked in the chest whenever Gavin turns up unexpectedly and he can’t keep attributing it to heartburn no matter how much shitty TexMex he eats. Besides, he doesn’t really get how a dude that never talks is a ‘blast’.

Gavin is _really_ fucking weird.


	4. Need You to Need Me, Love You to Love Me

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> chapter title from the lyrics of that one iconic song by the band cheap trick

There’s a diner down the street from Ray’s apartment that does an egg and sausage deal that’s pretty cheap and not utterly repulsive. Since he discovered it he goes there every morning he feels too lazy to make something for himself. Some say Michael is a creature of habit; some people are utterly correct. 

He’s about to revise his opinion in the ‘not utterly repulsive’ part though because his eggs today are both cold _and_ runny and if Michael were slightly less poor he would probably say inedible. As it is he’s dawdling grimly through each bite and hating life. 

A slight noise causes him to glance over at the window to his immediate left and Michael jumps, cusses, a bite of egg flying off his fork.

Like some sort of Gothic gargoyle Gavin's pressed up against the window, hands splayed on the glass and generous nose flattened to it. It's disconcerting and Michael doesn't think anyone would blame him for the _slightly_ squeaky scream he makes. 

"Gavin, what the hell!" He hisses when his breathing slows, aware of the waitress glaring at him across the diner. Gavin notices him with a jolt and grins stupidly, uncomprehending. It's utterly asinine and Michael doesn't know if it's embarrassment or rage or what exactly that's warming his cheeks. 

Gavin pulls away after a moment and jogs in the door. Michael watches him come with dread. 

"This is stupid." Gavin says decisively, thumping down in the seat across from Michael. 

"What." Michael demands, tone perfectly flat. His heart is still kicking wildly and he's not sure whether he's more shocked about Gavin's sudden appearance or the fact he was voluntarily saying multiple words to him. 

Gavin rolls his eyes patronizingly and Michael twitches with a flash of anger.

"The not-talking, you sausage!" He says as if it were obvious. Michael stares at him for a few seconds of expectant silence. 

"How did you find me here?" He asks slowly. He has several pressing questions but he's currently sitting in a tiny hole-in-the-wall diner across Austin from where Gavin camped out on Geoff's sofa and he'd like to know how Gavin tracked him down. 

"Oh, Ray told me." Gavin waves the question away airily and Michael decides that Ray was a traitor and would be noogied at the next available opportunity. "That's what I want talk about. We're bloody bandmates, we should get to know each other at least!" 

"What the fuck were you doing up against the window?" Michael asks, deciding not to pay any attention to Gavin's insane ramblings. Gavin doesn't seem to mind, flashing a brilliant grin at him and leaning forward earnestly. 

"I wanted to see if you were in here, of course! And then you saw me first, you cheeky boy." 

Michael stares at Gavin for a moment and then looks down at his cold, runny eggs and shitty coffee. His stomach is abruptly churning and he's not hungry. He stands up silently. 

Gavin stares up at him and his face falls with the tragedy of a Greek play. 

"What the fuck." Michael manages. Gavin looks down at the stained table sadly. 

"I thought it'd be top if we were all friends. I guess it's okay not to though, sorry for the whole. You know. Stalking thing." He says softly and even his _hair_ was a comical depressed droop. 

Fuck. _Fuck_

"Are you coming?" 

"What?" Gavin asks in his stupid fucking British accent, expression pure incomprehension. Michael isn't sure whether he wants to punch Gavin or himself more. 

" _Wot?_ " He parrots mockingly, raising a sarcastic eyebrow. "I said, are you coming, asshole? I don't have all day." 

Gavin looks at him like some Christians looked at pictures of Jesus and fucks _sake_. 

"Just come on." He growls, pretending his stomach hadn't just flipped yet another barrel roll. Fucking diner eggs. 

Gavin grins at him even as Michael grips him by the arm and literally drags him out of the booth. Michael hates him a little, he's ninety percent sure. He wonders what the fuck he's gotten himself into.

-(o)-

Michael figures if he's going to try being friends with Gavin Free he's going to do it right. That means conversation probably - Michael isn't sure what the two weeks of starting and silence were but apparently they weren't the norm for Gavin - and for that they need to have some sort of common interest.

Michael drags then to McDonald's and makes Gavin pay for the burgers on account of _you were the one creeping on me through a window like a psychopath_. Gavin smiles at him dopely and does as Michael says. 

Michael thinks that his weird stomach flipping better stop when he eats because he doesn't have time for any stomach-flu bullshit. 

"So, Gavin," Michael says when they're seated with their food. "What do you do?" 

Gavin shrugs and bounces in place like a child. It's exhausting just being in the same _room_ as him. 

"D'you mean as a job? I've had loads, really. Janitor a few times. I was a fry cook once! That didn't last so long, I kept setting things on fire by accident." 

Michael blinks, and then blinks again as he tries to process this. Somehow he doubts the 'accident' part. 

"I meant like hobbies, you idiot." 

Gavin grins at him, undeterred by the name-calling. He treats it almost like a pet name which- huh. Is pretty accurate. 

"Should have said, you silly sausage!" Michael twitches with instinctive rage but Gavin plows on as if he hasn't just tempted death. "I do some stuff with film, I suppose, but guitar is pretty much my life." Gavin pauses, frowning. "I play videogames?" He offers after a beat. 

Michael feels the grin spread across his face and wonders if he looks half as much like a shark as he feels. 

“How do you feel,” he asks gleefully, “about Zelda?” 

“Iconic.” Gavin replies promptly and stares at Michael’s smile with, for once, the appropriate trepidation. “...Why?”

“Gears of War?”

Gavin blinks at him a few times and Michael feels his grin expand by a few more teeth. 

“Good?” he hazards. 

“Banjo-Kazooie?”

“I ah.” Gavin winces and Michael sense victory in his very immediate future. “Never played it.” 

Michael stuffs the last of his burger into his mouth and grabs Gavin’s wrist again, dragging him out despite the odd British squawking. There’s a 64 in Ray’s apartment and a copy of Banjo-Kazooie on his shelf with their names on it. 

Michael can tell this is going to be the start of a beautiful friendship.


End file.
